


I'm a lie away from saying what I really think

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate History, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 05:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15405849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: In the wake of Princess Dowager Katherine's death, the Queen hosts a party where the guests are all to wear yellow.The new Duchess of Suffolk arrives on her husband's arm wearing black to mourn Queen Katherine's passing, in direct defiance of Lady Pembroke.





	I'm a lie away from saying what I really think

**Author's Note:**

> For [weallcomplete](http://weallcomplete.tumblr.com) on tumblr!

“Does anyone know?” Mary whispered, leaning closer to him even as she peered about, trying to take it all in at once. “That I am here, I mean.”

“They know that the new Lady Suffolk is present, yes,” Charles said, keeping his hand folded over hers on his arm to try and calm her. “But not who exactly she is, no.”

The Boleyns wouldn’t know what to do with themselves over this, he knew - Henry had arranged it all privately, for reasons still unknown to Charles. There was no chance that the Queen knew, and less that her father did, and Charles was anxious to keep Mary safely away from them for as long as he could tonight. 

Thank God for masks, he supposed. They might help prevent out-and-out war for a little while longer.

Although, looking down at Mary’s gown, not  _ that  _ much longer. Charles had done as ordered and wore yellow - a subdued brownish-yellow velvet, because it had felt disloyal to Mary to consider wearing the sunny bright silks that were apparent all around them, but yellow nonetheless - while Mary had opted for black. Gorgeous black, of course, rich silks with a heavy gold-threaded damask overskirt and bright yellow satin slashed in her sleeves. She had also chosen to wear a gabled hood instead of the more fashionable French hood, and a thick golden cross studded with rubies hung on a heavy chain around her neck - her mother’s, brought from Spain, apparently blessed by the Holy Father himself.

Overall, she was striking. In Anne Boleyn’s eyes, she likely looked halfways treasonous, especially given the dainty lioness of her mask. Charles himself had chosen a more conservative eagle, but Mary had defied him in this as much as she had in her gown, and he could not truly fault her for it - who was he to deny her the arms of both her mother and her father? 

At least her fair red-gold Trastamara hair was hidden under the hood and black silk net, which gave them just a little more leeway. Well, unless Henry spied them and decided to make a production of welcoming Mary back to court, which was always a possibility. Charles could never predict Henry’s actions, except to be sure that they would be unpredictable. 

“They are all so joyous,” Mary whispered again, leaning up on her toes to speak without being overheard. He leaned down just enough to make it a little less obvious, and also to hide the angry set of her jaw as best he could. “Is this really all because of…?”

Because of her mother’s death. Charles thought that the only people here truly celebrating the death of Katherine of Aragon were the Queen and her immediate family, but he wouldn’t have liked to lay money on it. Doubtless there were some who saw this as an opportunity for advancement, but mostly it was a steadying, a calming of troubled waters. With Queen Katherine dead, Anne seemed very much more the Queen and very much more Henry’s wife, even to the doubting, recalcitrant Papists who still lingered on the fringes of court. 

“I couldn’t say,” he said, because it would do no good to tell her the truth of how court stood - not yet. “Would you like to join the dancing on the next round?”

“Do not think to distract me, my lord,” she warned him, but there was some small hint of a smile there on her mouth. “I know why we are here - I know why  _ I  _ am here, sir.”

“I suppose you do,” he agreed. “You always were a clever girl.”

“Clever woman now,” she corrected him. “A woman wed, with a fine husband and fine stepchildren whose lives she does not intend on risking.”

He looked down at her, catching her sharply blue eyes behind the delicate black and gold mask that covered her from the edge of her hood to just above her pretty mouth. His own mask was gold with black laquered trim, a mirror of Mary’s, and he marvelled that she had managed to arrange for their clothes and trappings for this horrible party while also trying to grieve for her mother and adjust to being his wife.

At least he’d been able to sweeten her first days as Duchess of Suffolk a little, and her nights a little more. The grief he could not help with, but she did not seem to mind bearing it alone.

“People are staring,” she said. “Why are they staring?”

She was smiling a little. She knew why they were staring.

“What a striking couple you make, my lord Suffolk,” Thom Wyatt said, sidling up in that insinuating way of his - which always meant he was planning on a new poem, and that knowing smile usually meant it would be a particularly scathing satire. Charles wondered how that would change once Mary’s true identity was revealed. “Will you not introduce me to your new lady? I have heard such  _ rumours.” _

“I am sure you have, Master Wyatt,” Charles said amiably. “But I will confirm none of them, for that would spoil the fun, don’t you think?”

Mary’s laughter was barely above a breath, but he heard it - and so did Master Wyatt. Good. Let them all see that she found his company pleasing. Let them all see that this marriage would be no great trial for either one of them. Perhaps he and Mary would never love one another as he had her aunt, but they could make a good life together even without that - many successful marriages had been built on less. 

“You do so like your fun, Suffolk,” Wyatt said, returning his bright blue mask to his handsome face and bowing his exit. “By your leave, my lord.”

“I don’t remember ever meeting him before,” Mary said as he left. “But his poetry very much carries his voice, don’t you think?”

“What  _ has _ Cathy been giving you to read, my lady?” he teased. “Why, when I rescued you from Ludlow, you owned no books save for scripture and the Iliad.”

Court spun around them as they made their unhurried, careful way inward, and Charles could hear the whispers in their wake. There had been rumours, of course, when he had disappeared from court so suddenly, when talk came of the Princess Mary departing Ludlow without a known destination, but the two sets of whispers had never quite seemed to cross over. He wondered why that was. Perhaps because Charles was so recently wed to Mary’s aunt, or because he had so easily signed the Oath that was designed to keep Mary from her rights as Henry’s firstborn daughter. Who could say.

Wine appeared. Charles pressed a small glass into Mary’s hand and took a larger one for himself. They would need it, he was sure.

“Maria,” he murmured, “tell me, have you any friends you remember, who you would wish to see?” 

“None,” she said lightly, as if it did not worry her overmuch. “But surely that will change, now that I have such a lofty title.”

She was watching him while he considered that. He wondered how much weight she would place on his reaction, and decided there was nothing he could do to help it.

“You’re the King’s bastard,” he said. “And your husband is one of the King’s most trusted and beloved councillors. There will be many who seek your friendship, particularly those who don’t love the Queen.”

She hummed, hopefully pleased. Her mouth was pinked by the wine, and Charles wondered if he could pink her cheeks to match if he spun her into the dancing.

Henry was wearing rich gold velvet, slashed with black - an unwitting mirror to Mary’s heavy sleeves, a comparison that Thom Wyatt would no doubt delight in once the reveal was made. God save them, the stories that would spread if either King or Queen caused a scene over Mary’s presence would keep the country talking for a year without pause, and even Charles, who usually delighted in gossip and scandal, felt queasy at the thought.

Henry caught sight of them as he danced with some pretty woman who doubtlessly had the fair hair he had always preferred, and his naturally high colouring turned flaming scarlet almost instantly. That could mean delight or rage, and either could cause precisely the kind of dramatics that Charles and Mary had hoped to avoid. Henry’s moods swung every bit as high as they did low, after all. 

Charles carefully did not tense, but Mary noticed nonetheless and sighed in resignation.

“Do you think that he will cause a scene?” she asked, affecting a very convincing air of nonchalance. “I hope not - this is already quite enough of a production, I think.”

Henry had very explicitly included Mary in the invitation when he had told Charles of this party, so he really had no cause for anger - not that that had ever stopped him before. Charles was loyal, but not blindly so, and had faced enough of Henry’s anger over the years to know that it needed no reason and could not be stopped, once begun.

“Come,” he said, patting her hand. “It will look suspicious if we don’t dance - come along.”

Mary rolled her eyes but did as bid, and they stepped into place for the quadrille. Everyone turned to look at Mary, remarkable in her dark gown, but she tipped up her fine chin as if she hadn’t noticed them staring, and danced with the grace and lightness that Charles found so arresting in her every movement. She really was a lovely lady, and he was thankful that she had been wed to him as much because of her beauty and charm as because of how quickly those things would have been crushed, had she been thrust into the arms of some Boleyn connection.

Moments like this, when she laughed as she stepped out of a turn and into his arms, he was glad as well to be able to save her not for her sake, but for the other Mary Tudor’s. He did not like moments like this.

He guided her once more to a cup of wine, and bowed his head so they could speculate on who had joined them in their dance. The slighter man in the honey-coloured damask was George Boleyn, by the falcon mask and by the perennially caustic Jane Parker hanging doggedly on his arm, and he rushed immediately to Henry and the Queen. The stockier man Charles suspected as Henry Norris, dancing with the Shelton girl, and the final pair he thought were likely Edward Seymour and his brilliantly sarcastic wife - they would make fine allies indeed, if Charles was right in his estimation of how deep Henry’s interest in pretty Jane ran.

The Queen, when she stepped directly into Charles and Mary’s carefully 

meandering path, was wearing butter yellow silks that shone under the light, and her dark eyes were hungry. There were diamonds in the curving frame of her French hood, and rich topazes glittered amidst the feathers of her falcon mask.

“We are told, Your Grace,” she began grandly while Charles bowed, nudging Mary into a curtsy, “that you have made a half-Spanish bride for yourself. Might we assume that we are congratulating Lady Willoughby on a new title?”

“You may assume whatever you wish, Majesty,” he said easily, guiding Mary to rise. “Why, one could assume that the sky were pink, but that would not make it so.”

“What a wit you are, Suffolk,” the Queen said, a nasty twist taking her usually smiling mouth. “How we have missed you since your funny disappearance from court. But it seems that you have missed us as well, for your manners have failed so! Surely you will introduce me to your lady?”

“If that is your wish, Majesty,” he agreed, stepping back a little so he could present Mary properly. “For your pleasure, madam - Maria, Duchess of Suffolk.”

“Majesty,” Mary said, remaining low. “It is an  _ honour. _ ”

Sarcasm was charming in Ann Seymour, but less so in Mary Brandon - Charles had warned her to be respectful when she met the Queen, and yet found himself amused by her brazenness all the same.

“Rise, my lady,” Anne Boleyn said, holding out a hand to her rapidly approaching brother. “Will you speak for yourself, Lady Maria? Who were your parents?”

Mary rose slowly, carefully, and reached behind her head for the ribbon holding her mask in place. Charles might have stopped her, but decided then and there that it was best that they control the spectacle, since it would happen by their leave or without it - the Queen was out for blood, as she so often seemed to be of late.

Mary really was like Henry, in this light. The Queen stepped back at the sight of familiarly ruddy cheeks and clear blue eyes, and scowled at Mary’s smile, which was not even a little bit Tudor - that was wholly Queen Katherine, right down to the sardonic tilt of her head. 

“My father has disowned me, Majesty,” she said, “but my mother was Infanta Catalina of Aragon, daughter of the House of Trastamara - I was under the impression that this was a celebration of her life? Why else wear yellow, if not to honour the passing of a member of the Spanish royal family?”


End file.
